


You really should take better care of yourself

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [109]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Bad Decisions, Emotional Constipation, F/M, M/M, Non-Sexual Bondage, Wanderlust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-27 23:19:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10818855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: They’re used to being ignored, it’s fine. The point does stand, though: after so many hours (in a row) spent moping, and/or stomping around in a snit, the moment of ‘stop complaining and make the most of it’ has probably arrived. So they go.





	You really should take better care of yourself

**Author's Note:**

> for anon, who prompted: "I serve at the pleasure of the human race." Something kinky involving sub!12 needs to be written about this line. Please?

Experiencing an extended period of time linearly tells you something about yourself, the Doctor has discovered. What you’re made of, your mettle, your strength and perseverance, your ‘when the going gets tough the tough get going’. And your weaknesses, as well: the anxieties and resentments and what might be analogous to withdrawal from a fairly serious addiction.

(That line sounds familiar, but they’re not sure why - could be from anywhere, really.)

So they’ve discovered, or re-discovered, some truths about themself. And they say, out loud, in the vague hope that Nardole’s around somewhere to listen, “I’ve learned a lot in our time here.”

No answer.

“Really - really quite a bit.” Louder this time, with an unfortunate underlying whine.

Nardole pops his head out of the cupboard, fiddles his glasses back on, and says “That’s a question designed to lead into a conversation I do not wish to have.”

“Fair enough.” The Doctor slumps down in their chair, eyeline at the top of the desk, wheels skidding out slightly. “It’s just that - ”

The cupboard door slams shut. The Doctor should know better than to interrupt one of Nardole’s naps, and they’re not bothered. Just - they’ve been very good, for a very very long time, and they are very, very, very bored.

_So go do something_ , a voice in his head says. Could be anyone’s. _You don’t need to travel in time and blow up planets to get off your arse and have fun._

“It does help, though.”

Again, no answer. They’re used to being ignored, it’s fine. The point does stand, though: after so many hours (in a row) spent moping, and/or stomping around in a snit, the moment of ‘stop complaining and make the most of it’ has probably arrived. So they go.

 

* * *

This first time they go, it’s to the local, filled with fellow professors, a handful of brave post-grads and a few scattered pensioners who have not received the memo about this being a university bar. It’s pub quiz night, and no one will let them play alone, even if a handicap is only fair. The Doctor is handed a pint of some appallingly bitter microbrew and a partner, whose name is - they forget, but it’s something to do with flowers. The questions assume false narratives and no one appreciates the Doctor’s explanations of why the questions are bad, least of all Ms Flowers.

“I’m not sure what you’re on,” she says, sotto-voce. “But cool it, maybe. I want the free t-shirt and bragging rights. Stop throwing the match.”

The Doctor rolls their eyes and slumps down and swallows the rest of their truly awful beer, breaking their moody silence only to whisper hints.

The quiz ends in a draw, free t-shirts for everyone. They put the t-shirt on over their other two t-shirts and then the hoodie/jacket back on over that. Ms Flowers buys them a glass of decent scotch and slaps them on the back, and this is called ‘bonding’ or ‘making friends’ or something.

 

* * *

“If you can’t go adventuring, might as well go slumming, eh?” Nardole, apparently having waited up.

“I was having - ” They pause, digging for the rest of the sentence. “The thing. Uh. _Fun_.”

“You smell like a distillery.”

“And you smell like a cupboard - ”

“That doesn’t even make any _sense_ \- ”

“So there you go,” they say, swaying on their feet. “Both wearing our vices on our sleeves. So go, I dunno, go tighten your screws, or whatever it is you do in there.”

Nardole stiffens, and glares in that way where he can’t quite handle glaring directly at the Doctor so glares at the mantle or such as instead, and does his best to storm off in a huff. I.e, walk slowly away in hesitant disapproval.

The Doctor lies carefully down on the floor and listens to the alcohol leaving their system, til it’s sun-up and a new day. Another day. All these days, one after another.

 

* * *

The second time they go it’s to catch their local chippy in flagrant non-adherence to local health code laws. Sure, they’re down one late-night snack source, but it’s the principle of the thing. Nardole’s pained sigh at having to walk two extra blocks at tea-time is an added bonus.

 

* * *

The third time: they run. To nowhere in particular, just over there, and then past that. Half a kilometer and the body around them is protesting, one kilometer and it’s giving up. And the what-they-are isn’t sated at all. It’s different, they posit, leaning over a railing and breathing hard, their clumsy lungs more obviously pointless than usual, the muscles in their legs shaking in an all-too-convincing performance. Different when there’s something chasing you, versus not. Different when you’re running away from a threat rather than just apathy.

It’s late, and it’s dark, and they stumble back to what home is now, to the handle on their leash. Nardole’s waiting up.

“What is it that you want from me?” The Doctor peels their coat off, and then the other coat, and so on. Leaving a trail of discarded clothing along the way to the back office.

“To fulfill your promise. So I can fulfill mine. And we can all, you know, not die horribly. Sir.”

The Doctor pauses at the doorway, abstractly aware that they are at - for them - an unusual level of undress. “And that’s all?”

“That’s all.” Nardole swallows hard, then nods firmly, and flees back to his cupboard.

The Doctor sleeps on the floor again.

 

* * *

The fourth time, it’s to a dark, crowded club. It’s too much, a mistake potentially but there is an energy here that almost makes sense. On stage, a complicated knot-tying routine is being demonstrated on a very flexible young man. The Doctor purchases an appletini with a handful of coin and approaches the display.

Ropes pulling tight against skin, the crowd reacting, the young man closing his eyes. The Doctor takes a sip of their drink and immediately abandons it on a nearby table.

“Fancy meeting you here,” someone says. Someone sidles up. Ms Flowers, decidedly more in the way of leather and butch than she was during the extremely normal pub quiz.

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” they say.

“Oh, I’m already out. Within tasteful reason, of course, but life’s too short to hide. And you? Is this your dirty secret, or are you just here as a tourist?”

Both. Neither. “To be here, very much here. And held to it, kept to it, by - ” They want to say ‘by humans’, but that’d be an obvious flag. “ - By someone who doesn’t care. Or, not that, but - ”

“I know what you mean,” Ms Flowers says. “For that-” She gestures to the stage. “To be its own world. Not about sex or relationships, just a mutually-beneficial process. You’re gay, right? You and your assistant…”

The Doctor blinks, staring at the sweat pouring off the brow of the man trussed up under the lights. “None of that, actually.”

“Close enough. I’m up next, I’ll be asking for a volunteer from the audience and obviously it’s staged, I have someone ready to jump in, but if you’d like…?”  She raises her eyebrows, and sets her half-finished drink on the table, and wanders off.

To be here and nowhere else. To be for _them_ , their pleasure and need. Explicitly, like, and acknowledged. Which is something very powerful for a very, very, very old Time Lord set adrift and beholden on this planet. The lights flicker and the Doctor raises their hand.

And they go.

Time slows, but not in a bad way, as they make their way up to the stage. They’re not the ideal expected subject, they know - they did a Google - but press on through the ambivalent noises of the crowd.

“Are you alright?” she asks, in what might as well be a whisper, considering the ambient volume here.

“If you are. I’m here for you. All of you. Just - give the order.”

It’s like finally slotting into place, letting Ms Flowers strap them into the St Andrew’s Cross. No more temptations, no urges, the wanderlust kicked back. They’re here, they are very much here. And they, somehow, relax. Finally.

 

* * *

Nardole’s still waiting up when they get home, loose-limbed and bruised. They can feel it, under their clothes, the marks left. The reminders.

“I’m going to go lie down on the floor,” they say, heading towards the back office.

“I’m just curious - where is it that you go? When you’re not going anywhere?”

“Here,” the Doctor says, paused at the doorway, swaying slightly. “Just here. G'night.”

“G'night,” Nardole responds, after a slight delay. “Sleep tight, don’t fuck off out into all of space and time.”

“I’ll try not to,” the Doctor says, slamming the door shut behind them.


End file.
